


Sherlock Joins A Fandom

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John loves hobbits, Lord of the Rings, fluff!, manly cuddles, movie marathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have a movie marathon, involving hobbits, an elf archer, and thirteen hours of movie magic. Manly cuddling ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Joins A Fandom

**Author's Note:**

> My friend got me into Lord of the Rings after we had a thirteen-hour long movie marathon (extended edition box set) and I though John might've been a hardcore Tolkien fan, so this little fluffy monstrosity was born.   
> I like making my characters fall asleep cuddling, so expect much of that coming from my fics.

The Unidentified Flying Object lands with an uncomfortable _thump_ on Sherlock’s stomach. The detective cast an uninterested eye over the thing, in his coldly detached way, ignoring the sharp corner digging into the flesh between his hipbones. He prods it gingerly with a fine-boned hand, as if it were a venomous snake about to bite him at any second.

“Jawn, what is this?”

John, who was watching this with all the fascination of a scientist, smirked.

“Lord of the Rings. Extended edition. Thirteen hours of geeking out to hobbits. Thought it might interest you.”

Sherlock scoffed at this last bit, and flailed around for his (cold) mug of tea. Taking a sip, he recoiled in disgust, and tossed the vessel, tea and all, over his shoulder. The sound of the breaking cup made John flinch. Sherlock was unconcerned.

John sighed, and swooped the cumbersome box into the crook of his right elbow. He fumbled for a few minutes, delicately sliding out the DVD and set up the television. It flickered to life, and John’s face lit up with pure, undisguised joy(Tolkien would have been pleased).

“Shift over, Sherlock. Quit hogging the sofa.” Sherlock scowled up at his flatmate from where he was reclining on the piece of furniture. He complied, however, and swiveled to a seated position, with John comfortably nestled into the opposite side, hugging the Union Jack pillow to his chest.

The film started, and within seconds, had Sherlock visibly entranced.

By the second half of the Fellowship of the Ring, Sherlock had started cursing at the appearance of the deformed villains and instantly labeled Legolas as his favourite character.

He leaned so far forward in his seat that John could swear his torso was horizontal.

When it ended, Sherlock’s head turned alarmingly fast in John’s direction (it was like watching an exorcism or something).

“Next. Now.”

John let out a breath of laughter, and, grunting in protest of his sore back, inserted the next disc.

He did, however, pause somewhere in the first five minutes to toss a blanket over the two of them. John also made two mugs of (hot) tea and brought out a plate of biscuits.

The heated glare of the younger man’s eyes burned into the nape of his neck. John relished the control he had over Sherlock, but resumed the film as soon as he sat down.

 *********

 

Their tea is finished, and all that’s left of the biscuits are a few telltale crumbs scattered on the (hopefully clean) plate. The men have migrated to the center of the sofa, Sherlock with his bony knees pulled up to his chin, arms wrapped around his legs, and John leaning on Sherlock. The blanket is draped over them both.

By the beginning of the second half of The Two Towers, John had started to nod off, only to wake up every other minute from the sounds of fighting.

Sherlock has his pale grey eyes glued to the screen. It’s nighttime now, and the flat is lit by the light of the television and the nightlife outside the dusty windows. Sherlock looks ethereal, his alabaster skin glowing blue and green and all sorts of colours.

John is half asleep now, and tries to open his mouth to comment on his appearance, but breaks off with a yawn.

Sherlock notices, and immediately files that little noise away in the John section of his mind palace (he tells no one, not even John, that there’s a whole special floor in his mind palace where he stores everything John. Mycroft suspects, of course).

John is fast asleep. Sherlock has to carefully untangle himself from the heavy folds of the blanket to get up and put on the next bit.

He refuses to admit to himself that John was right- he does find the films interesting. The flickering images on the screen make him drowsy- the flashing lights reminiscent of shining stars and comfy dreams.

He doesn’t stay awake long enough to see the end of the Return of the King.

They wake up in the watery egg yolk yellow of sunlight. John is first to awaken, squinting into the brightness of dawn. He groans and rubs the sleep from bleary eyes with fisted hands. The screen is still, end credits frozen in their moment on a backdrop of black. He must have rolled onto the remote and paused it.

Then the doctor notices an uncomfortable sensation. He’s lying on something long and knobbly. Sherlock’s elbow digs into his side, his sharp hip jabbing painfully into his back. The sleeping detective grumbles and turns over, dumping John unceremoniously onto the floor.

“Tea.”

John lets out a huff of laughter, and goes to prepare breakfast.


End file.
